spinning, a flaming brand through space, to annihilation--the great
scheme would seem to me a failure--but I don't believe it is." And off
he marched in the other direction.

The Lawyer shrugged his shoulders, and suppressed, as well as he
could, a smile. The Youngster, leaning his elbows on his knees,
recited under his breath:

"And as he sat, all suddenly there rolled,
From where the woman wept upon the sod,
Satan's deep voice, 'Oh Thou unhappy God.'"

"Exactly," said the Lawyer.

"What's that?" asked the Violinist.

"Only the last three lines of a great little poem by a little great
Irishman named Stephens--entitled 'What Satan Said.'"

"After all," said the Lawyer, "the Doctor is probably right. It all
depends on one's point of view."

"And one's temperament," said the Violinist.

"And one's education," said the Critic.

Just here the Doctor came back,--and he came back his smiling self. He
made a dash down the path to where the Journalist was evidently
sulking, went up behind him, threw an arm over his shoulder, and led
him back into the circle.